cabin and lock yourself in and stay there. If I haven’t turned up by tomorrow afternoon, find Seth Gerald of the Roche Mines and tell him I’m in jail. Go to the governor if you have to, but…”
“Michael! I’m frightened. Remember that man on the highway this afternoon. Those were officers… and they murdered him in cold blood just to ruin Brand’s alibi. They might…”
“I’m tougher than these birds they’re used to pushing around,” Shayne growled close to her ear.
“But when the police find out you’re a detective working to free Brand…” She shuddered, leaning close against his arm.
“I’ve fixed that,” he told her. “Among the things I’ll give you will be a piece of paper signed by the man who runs AMOK showing I’ve been retained by the mine operators to look into Brand’s guilt. Keep hold of it, and don’t worry about me.”
“You think you’ll have a chance to see Brand in jail?”
“It looks like a good chance… and the only chance.”
“But if you represent the mine owners, wouldn’t they just let you go in and talk to him?”
“They might. But I want to get to Brand before he finds out I’ve gone over to AMOK.” He patted her cheek and asked loudly, “Any more dimes?”
“Just one.” Lucy put the coin in. Shayne pulled the lever and turned away without waiting for the cylinders to stop. Lucy waited until it stopped on a lemon, and followed him back to their table.
Shayne drew a chair out for her and asked Rexard thickly, “Which way to the li’l boy’s room?”
Rexard chuckled and gave him directions, then watched anxiously as Shayne lurched toward the rear, narrowly avoiding a collision with an elderly couple.
Inside the wash room, Shayne went through his wallet, removing all the money except a hundred and fifty dollars, and all business cards and other identification. He put the agreement signed by Persona with the other things. He withdrew the letter from Charles Roche which was in his hip pocket. After reading it carefully once more, he tore it into tiny pieces and flushed it down the drain.
When he made certain there was nothing left in his pockets or wallet to identify him, he slid the small pack of banknotes and papers in his trousers pocket and went back to the dining room.
Titus Tatum was holding Lucy’s hand and flashing his gold teeth when Shayne approached the table. He dropped her hand hastily, but not quickly enough to prevent Shayne from standing over him with doubled fists and protesting drunkenly, “Thatsh my girl, see? Keep your han’s off her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Michael!” Lucy sprang up and grabbed his arm. “Sit down and have another drink,” she begged.
Shayne shook her hand from his arm. “Don’ wan’ ’nother drink. Wanna win shome money. Lotsha money.” He caught Lucy’s hand and almost fell as he pulled her to a deserted machine in a corner.
Her handbag was suspended from her left shoulder by a leather strap. The flap was down, but the catch was released. She stayed close behind him, facing the machine, while Shayne turned slightly, slipped the packet from his pocket, turned again and placed them in her purse which she held open with her left hand while her right hand deposited a coin. Shayne pulled the crank and muttered, “Good work, Angel, I’ll see you…”
Shayne glanced up and saw a man coming through the doorway.
Mr. Persona was alone. He stood just inside the door for a moment, a broad smile on his thick mouth and triumphant gleam in his light eyes as though he expected the people to rise and pay him due homage before making an entrance.
Shayne said, “Put a nickel in the slot… quick. And take a look at the short, dark man standing at the door.”
Lucy put the coin in and glanced at the man. “Who…?”
“That’s Persona,” he told her as the machine clattered. “Big-shot in the Mine Owners of Kentucky and the man who’s retained me to convict Brand.” The machine stopped. “Put in another nickel and watch where he goes.”
“He’s going to the rear,” she reported. “Titus is getting up and waving… he’s going to our table,” she went on in a low, excited voice.
Shayne said grimly, “I’m going to stagger out and I’ll keep my back turned. When you go to the table try to keep my name out of the conversation. Is he looking this way?”
“No… his back is turned. They’re all talking together.”
“Good. Listen, Angel. I’m going to ease out. Get back there and turn on your charm. Get him talking about strikes and murders. Get him liquored up if you can. Get the lowdown on Seth Gerald. And… watch your step.” He turned and swayed the few steps to the door, glancing aside to see a look of hostility on the cashier’s face.
Outside, he stood swaying, irresolutely, staggered a few steps in one direction, turned and staggered back, wondering how long he was going to have to wait before a cop arrested him.
The local tipoff service was evidently working perfectly. Two men came toward him purposefully, both in uniform and both swinging nightsticks.
Shayne grinned foolishly, squinting first one eye and then the other, then both, as though straining for focus.
They were big, burly men, fat paunches straining their belts. Each took a firm hold on one of Shayne’s arms. One of them said, “Seems like you don’t know which way to go, fella. Come ’long an’ we’ll show you. Fact is, we’ll give you a little ride.”
Shayne jerked his arms and protested angrily. “Don’ wanna ride. My girl…”
The policeman on his right slapped him across the mouth. “We don’t like drunk bastards in Centerville. Get movin’.”
Shayne licked his lip and tasted blood. He gritted his teeth and let his legs go limp. They caught him up and dragged him to the police car and dumped him in the back on the floor, got in the front seat together and drove away.
9
The Centerville police station was only a few blocks from the Eustis Restaurant. It was an ugly stucco building housing the city offices, with the jail on the second floor. An entrance from a side street led directly into a small, drab room with a scarred desk and straight chairs around the walk. There was no one in the room when the officers dragged Shayne in and shoved him into a chair where he pretended complete grogginess.
An open door on the left revealed a large, comfortably furnished room, brightly lighted, and with the sound of an electric fan whirring. One of the officers said, “Gantry must be in with the chief. Wonder what’s goin’ on in there?” He sauntered through the doorway, leaving the other to guard Shayne.
Shayne’s head, lolling against the wall, was turned directly toward the lighted room. He could see only a small segment of it… part of a large desk with a man sitting behind it. He was a big man with heavy jowls bulging from his jawbone, and in the bright overhead light he appeared to have no eyebrows or lashes. A roll of flesh hung over his protuberant eyes which were wide open, unblinking and expressionless as he stared straight before him at someone whom Shayne could not see on the other side of the desk. There was a murmur of voices, but no words were distinguishable to him.
The policeman who stood guard over Shayne got out a plug of tobacco and gnawed off a portion. A narrow wooden stairway led down into the room from the floor above, and there was the shuffle of descending footsteps and the soft whimpering sound of agony or of fear from a human being.
Shayne didn’t turn his head to betray his interest, but by shifting his eyes to the side and slightly upward, he saw three men. Two of them were in their shirtsleeves, but wore uniform trousers and visored caps. They were supporting a man who was bleeding at the nose and mouth and was making a whimpering noise by gasping in short breaths and exhaling between clenched teeth. His shirt was half torn from his torso and soggy with blood. He cringed between the two policemen, staring stupidly with glazed eyes.
Shayne’s guard chewed rhythmically and watched with professional interest as the trio reached the bottom of the stairs and started toward the side office. “You gonna be long, Gantry?” he demanded impatiently. “We got a drunk here to be booked.”
